


Fool's Gold

by a_hand_outstretched



Category: Succession (TV 2018)
Genre: Complicated Relationships, Drug Use, Internalized Homophobia, Kendall doesn't meet up with a certain waiter, M/M, Masturbation, Repression, What-If, a little dubcon but not really (see note), just a quick thing bc i Miss Them
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-22
Updated: 2020-11-22
Packaged: 2021-03-09 17:49:03
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,968
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27520282
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/a_hand_outstretched/pseuds/a_hand_outstretched
Summary: Sensing Kendall's about to get himself into trouble, Stewy stays with him the night of Shiv's wedding.
Relationships: Stewy Hosseini/Kendall Roy
Comments: 4
Kudos: 41





	Fool's Gold

“I could just do with a straightener.” 

Stewy knows he shouldn’t give Kendall the coke. He’s not an idiot, he can see right through the flimsy nonchalant act — Kendall’s itching to get fucking obliterated tonight, eager to put everything they worked for at stake in the hopes that it’ll all blow up in his face. Stewy knows how Ken operates better than he does, probably, and he knows tonight will happen with him or without him. So the logical thing to do is give Kendall whatever he wants, if it means a chance at containing disaster. 

The thing is, this is exhausting, all of this careful reasoning, all this time and brain power required to stay three steps ahead of everyone in this family. He’s fed up with babysitting Kendall. Really he’d just like to get off and go to bed. He drops his head and rolls his shoulders, debating whether he can stomach going through the usual bullshit, the too-repressed-to-say-anything-out-loud dance that’s required to get Kendall comfy enough to take his dick out. He sighs. 

“What’ll you give me for it?” he asks. 

“Don’t fuck with me, Stew. C’mon.” Kendall’s using his bossy voice, the one that Stewy swears hasn’t changed in tone since they were eight years old. Stewy didn’t want to listen to him then, either. 

“Yeah, that’s not really how a negotiation works, Ken. I’ve got this,” he produces a baggie from an inside pocket and waggles it around, “and you’ve got…? What?” He gives Kendall a pointed onceover, gaze landing on his mouth. 

Kendall frowns. “Not today, okay? Not fucking here.” 

“Hey — I’m here, aren’t I? I came all the way out to this damp fucking shithole and sat through your sister’s boring ass wedding without killing myself. Don’t I deserve a little reward for that?”

“Reward? You are so full of shit. How much do you want for it?” 

“Money?” Stewy scoffs. “You know what your problem is? Well, one of the _many_. It’s that you’ve got a critical lack of imagination, Ken.” Kendall rolls his eyes. Stewy smiles placidly even though he wants to slap his smug, junkie face. He tucks the coke into the inside pocket of his jacket and drops the smile. “Let me jerk off on your face and I’ll share.” 

Predictably, Kendall balks. Not so much at the act itself, Stewy assumes, but at the saying-it-out-loud of it all. “Uh, no? That’s — that’s not happening.”

“Get over here or I’ll make you blow me instead.” 

“Fuck you. I’ll fucking leave.” 

“What are you going to do, go party with one of the teenage waitresses out there? Real fucking classy, bro. Or, or, or — oh, what’s his name? Your cousin? The very tall child? Maybe he’ll share his gummy vitamins with you.” 

Kendall frowns again and folds his arms over his chest. Stewy can see he’s twitchy, that he’ll break. He spreads his legs as far as the chair allows and smooths his hands over his thighs. He taps his knee. Kendall flings his arms down.

“Fuck you,” he snaps. 

He stomps over and gets on his knees in front of Stewy, one hand gripping the arm of the chair. Stewy takes a moment to relish the view. Then, taking his sweet motherfucking time, he unzips his pants, pulls his cock out, spits in his hand, and starts stroking himself. At first Kendall refuses to break eye contact, like, no homo if you’re not looking at your best friend’s dick, or whatever, but Stewy keeps smirking and not blinking and he eventually squeezes his eyes shut instead. 

“This is like, assault, you know. Coercion,” Kendall mumbles. As if this was any deviation at all from their usual repertoire: limited touching, the flavor of a frat house hazing ritual, and, always, plausible deniability tomorrow. 

“Mmmhmm. You are _such_ a fucking pussy. Open your mouth.” 

“Fuck you.” 

Stewy grabs Kendall’s chin a little harder than he needs to and thumbs at his lower lip until he opens his mouth just a fraction. "Look at me," he orders. Kendall's eyes open. His face is flushed dark red. Stewy knows this look on him; a hot combination of anger, shame, alcohol, and arousal. Kendall’s repressed shit has never sat well with him, but damn if it doesn’t _work_ sometimes. He can feel him breathe carefully, overly slow and not quite steady enough to hide how turned on he is. He lets go of Kendall’s face and Kendall lets his jaw drop a little more. 

“Fuck," Stewy says. He starts moving his hand faster, teetering on the edge now. Kendall looks like he might be there too. He’s almost tempted to get down on the floor with him, press their mouths together, just to see what might happen. Instead he moves his hand to cover Kendall’s, which is still gripping the chair. Kendall jerks forward at the touch. His chin bumps into Stewy’s knuckles on the hand he has around his cock and Stewy comes just like that, his orgasm over practically before it starts. It's not nearly as satisfying as he wanted it to be — if anything it's just made him more annoyed. 

Kendall doesn’t get up right away. He looks up at Stewy expectantly, his face covered in cum. That image, at least, is worth something. Stewy does his best to commit it to memory. 

“Okay, okay,” he says, slowly pulling the coke from his pocket. Kendall stands up and swipes at his face, wipes his hand on his leg. He holds out his other hand, palm up. Stewy ignores it and reaches to tuck the baggie into Kendall’s pants pocket, right next to his obvious hard on. “You gonna take care of that before you hit the dance floor?” he asks. 

Kendall turns away and dumps the coke out onto the coffee table. “Uh, I don’t know, Stewy, are you fucking offering? Or do I have to pay for that too? Let’s see, I’ve, uh, given you my family’s company, I’ve gotten on my fucking knees, what else can I do for you today, man?” 

Stewy’s spent dick twitches at that snide tone. Fuck, it makes him want to kill him. And fuck him. He doesn’t say anything in response, just watches Kendall carefully cut lines with his key card and bend over the table. He sinks back into the couch as the drug hits him. He rubs a hand across his face again, lips pursed in annoyance. 

“You know, we could…” Stewy starts, rolling his head toward the bedroom. He leaves the words hanging between them, half a joke. 

Kendall’s face is impassive. “That’s not really our thing.” 

“Could be.” Stewy shrugs. 

Kendall’s brow furrows slightly. He takes his time to answer, voice definitive. “But it’s not.” 

Oh, this guy and his precious fucking hangups. If Stewy was tired of it earlier he’s fucking _done_ now. “What’s the fucking difference, man? What, you scared daddy’s gonna find out you like the occasional dick in your mouth? We’re not 15 anymore.” 

This flusters him. “I’m not — It’s not — I just don’t —” 

Stewy puts one foot up on the table, makes a show of zipping up his pants. He stretches himself out like a cat in the sun — he’s got a flush hand and he’s calling Kendall’s bluff. “So, to be clear, you’re not at all interested in fucking me?” he drawls. 

Kendall jerks his gaze away. He picks a point on the wall to stare at instead. He never was a good liar. 

“Your inability to speak isn’t convincing me, Kenny.” 

Kendall shakes his head slightly and finally speaks, still staring at the wall. “I’m just not sure,” he says carefully, “that it’s the best idea for us, right now, right? We’ve got to be focused. I mean, these next couple of weeks — it’s going to take everything we have…” 

Again, Stewy’s brain flips back and forth between “Murder Kendall” and “Fuck Kendall”. Getting lectured on responsibility by a fucking cokehead fail-son with jizz drying on his cheek. He abruptly gets to his feet, which gets Kendall to finally look at him again. 

“I don’t think you can do it,” he says. Kendall flinches at the words. 

“What — are we back to — the takeover? We’re already — I —” 

Stewy takes a step closer to him. He’s always known just how much to twist the knife. “You’re going to pussy out and fuck us over. You will, Ken. I know you will. Because I know you, and you haven’t changed, not really, not at all. You’re still desperate — _desperate —_ to be the golden boy.” 

“Stop,” Kendall says. 

“I’m fucking right, and you know it, too.” He lets a twinge of disgust color his voice. 

Kendall’s face is getting red again, and his voice has an edge of panic to it. “You’re wrong,” he says. 

“Yeah, here’s the thing, though, Ken. I’m not.” 

The silence hangs between them for what feels like a very long time, during which all Stewy can think is _I know him better than he knows himself, I know, I know, I know —_

The kiss is like a punch in the mouth. Stewy actually brings a hand up to check for blood. Kendall looks surprised at himself for doing it, but quickly tries to hide that by grabbing at the buttons on Stewy’s shirt. He crowds in until Stewy ends up bent backwards over the arm of the couch, blood rushing uncomfortably to his head. “Mmph — the bed, Ken.”

Kendall gives up on the shirt and shoves him, palms against his chest, pushing him back even further. “I need you to stop fucking playing with me,” he snaps. 

“We wouldn’t need the games if you could just tell me what you want, man. You want to know what I want? I’ll spell it out for you.” He shoves Kendall so hard he stumbles backward and almost trips over the coffee table. He gets the shirt off himself and tosses it aside. He starts counting on his fingers: “We take our clothes off, finish that coke, you man the fuck up and fuck me to my second orgasm of the evening, we sleep for eight hours, wake up, have some fucking cantaloupe, tell the world Logan Roy’s as relevant as the Queen’s cunt, and get the fuck out of this depressing little country.” 

Kendall loses steam, his face wavering again. His hands are clenching and unclenching. “I’m not like you, I can’t — I don’t just —” 

“Are you about to call me a slut?” 

“That’s not what I fucking meant. I meant… Are you really in this with me? Together?" 

“Ken.” He wants to say don’t be fucking stupid, don’t be childish, we’re business partners, no one is really with anyone, ever, but instead he softens his voice, goes to him with a hand stretched out like he’s a spooked horse. “We’ve known each other for a long time. Right? Where do you think I’m going?” 

Kendall nods, seemingly assured. Stewy sets a hand on his shoulder. “Right,” Kendall says firmly, that confidence flaring up again, and maybe he’s just as fucking gullible as Ken but Stewy suddenly thinks he can work with this, right here. Kendall might be shaky — when has he ever been 100%? — but Stewy has him in the palm of his fucking hand. A couple more lines and they both might be convinced this is really happening. And what could fuck it up, at this point? What could possibly go wrong between now and their morning check in with Sandy? He gives Kendall’s shoulder a tight squeeze, then slips a hand under his jacket. 

“Yeah. It’s fucking ours. We’ve just gotta take it. You ready for that?” The jacket drops to the floor. Stewy moves his hands to Kendall’s belt. 

“Yeah. Fuck yeah I am,” Kendall says.   
  
  
  


**Author's Note:**

> Slightly dubious consent: Stewy "forces" Kendall to let him come on his face (and Kendall complains that he's being coerced) but in reality they're both into it.


End file.
